Life in the Dog House

If somebody had told me six months ago I'd have a medical staff that includes canine radiologists and surgeons and oncologists, I'd have licked my own balls. Well, stranger things keep happening, and now I've added a doggie ophthalmologist to the list. Soon I'll be lifting my leg to pee.

Just when I thought Manny's biggest health problem was his girth -- he is now tipping the scales at fifty-five pounds, a bit steep for somebody who is barely a foot tall -- he developed an eye infection. I've spent the past week attempting to wipe thick goop out of his bloodshot right eye, which he can clamp shut so tightly it takes two of us to pry it open just a smidge so we can get the eye drops in. Or at least tell ourselves they're in. But no amount of wiping or topical medication or antibiotics buried in peanut butter seems to help. I've even found myself excavating rock hard boogers from his squashed little nose, thinking clear breathing passages might alleviate some of the eye discomfort, but all that does is really piss him off. I can tell because he gets back at me by sneezing in my face, which he knows I don't appreciate.

Pulling boogers out of a dog's nose is another thing I never thought I would do; it's way up there on the list of strange things, right behind the canine ophthalmologist. And my daughter thought it was odd a few weeks ago that I agreed to hold the tissue for her while she blew her nose so she wouldn't ruin her manicure! Gross, to be sure, but it's got nuthin on doggie boogers honey.

Long ago, before my marriage imploded, when my father was battling terminal cancer, I told my husband in no uncertain terms that I would never take care of him the way my mom took care of my dad. "You're on your own, babe." Yes, that was during the "good times." He was pretty certain I wasn't joking, given that only a year or two earlier I had tossed an open suitcase filled with his golf clothes down the stairs while he lay with pneumonia in what he thought for sure was his death bed. Nowadays, he probably takes comfort in the thought I won't be around him should he ever become ill. But, then again, stranger things have happened. (Ooh, that probably just sent shivers down his spine!)

Manny's appointment with the eye doctor isn't for another few days, so I'll keep doing what I need to do. Ah, the things we do for love.

The Wedding Crashers

Damn Brits. Don't they know it's four o'clock in the morning in the real world?

Who throws a wedding on a Friday anyway? Okay, maybe I'm just bitter. My daughter and I had fully intended to be there, even though our invitation seems to have gotten lost in the mail. I mean post. We had our makeup done and our shoes re-heeled (not to be outdone by the Queen's horses), and we purchased the most divinely tacky hats. We even had our teeth whitened, and, I don't know if you can tell from the picture, but I managed to drop a few pounds, and I'm not just talking about currency.

After all the days of anticipation and the painstaking preparations, we overslept. In truth, we both were up, but we came to our senses and decided we could wait to see the dress. The royals would never know. We'll just ship the gift (a beautiful seder plate; I'm hoping they don't already have one).

As cynical as I pretend to be, I have watched more than my share of royal wedding television this week. I am as anxious as the next bloke to find out who designed the dress, who baked the cake, and whether the flowers all opened at the right moment. (I was seriously almost brought to tears when I watched an interview with a royal florist, who spoke openly and passionately about the stress of timing the flowers just right.) I was touched by Kate's decision to ride to the Abbey in a sedan, as befits a commoner, and only hop into the Cinderella coach after she officially becomes a princess. The sedan is probably a Bentley though; if she really wanted to make a statement, she should have gone with a Chevy.

Thanks to the modern miracle of DVR -- ironically modern in the context of the anachronistic rituals associated with the marriage of a future King and Queen -- my daughter and I will be able to enjoy the spectacle later tonight, when our eyes are not puffy from sleep deprivation and we can nibble on canapes that might have been just a bit nauseating at four a.m. In our floral bathrobes, we will look just like any other guest. Maybe not any old guest, but we will certainly give the Queen a run for her money.

Mazel tov Will and Kate.

Frisky Business

Yesterday was a very stressful day at the yoga clothing store. The big regional muckety mucks were in the neighborhood for a meeting with the somewhat less important muckety mucks who manage the individual stores. First, they stopped by to engage in a little on-site white glove inspection.

Realizing my normally mellow manager was wound up like a top (I was clued in by her constant arm flapping to forestall pit stains and an incessant urge to spritz herself with vile perfume), I went along with the morning search for dust bunnies and virtually invisible specks of lint. I dutifully donned my magnetic pin identifying me as a store employee -- as if the head to toe brand insignias on my clothing weren't enough -- and made sure my cell phone was tucked out of sight. I didn't really believe the experience would be all that intimidating, but I played along, even getting swept up a little bit in the anticipation.

And then Ray (not his real name) the regional manager arrived with his sidekick, the district manager, whose real name truly escapes me, so we'll call her Trudy. Ray was dressed exactly as I had been told he would be, in his metrosexual slacks with a shirt tucked in and two buttons open to reveal just a touch of what appeared to be coiffed chest hair. Ray was very serious about his duties as regional manager for a chain of yoga apparel stores, as he should be, given that the decisions he makes on a daily basis are as life and death as decisions can get. I had never realized until this morning how crucial mannequin placement can be; how moving a plastic, headless chick a few inches to the left can literally change the world.

Ray didn't miss a beat when I appeared without my magnetic identify tag (I had removed my sweatshirt, and since we never wear the tags in "real life," I forgot to transfer it). "Jill," he said, eying me with utter disdain and tapping his forefinger on the spot where he would have had a lapel. I gasped. All the sales figures in the world weren't going to save my reputation with the big wigs.

Trudy, new to her elevated position and eagerly sticking her tongue up Ray's ass whenever possible, beckoned to me and the other salesperson after we had situated two women in fitting rooms. "It's time to double team them," she urged. "Bring them tops. Once they're naked, you have 'em where you want 'em." Did she think we were lesbians? My colleague explained to me that we were supposed to grab tops off the racks and push them on the unsuspecting shoppers who really just came in for some workout pants. So we each grabbed an armful of tops, asked the ladies if they wanted to see any (of course they didn't) and deposited the sight unseen rejects in some empty dressing rooms. Then, after waiting a respectable amount of time, we proceeded to return the tops to their rightful racks. At least I know how Trudy has made it so high up on the corporate ladder.

Sales picked up once the muckety mucks departed and we went back to giving customers the space and dignity they seem to crave. Ray and Trudy returned just as I was preparing to leave, just in time to give me one more lesson in how to succeed in business: treat your employees as if they are petty thieves. My manager had to check my bags and practically frisk me before I went out the door, and we both had to pretend this was standard operating procedure.

If I'm ever going to be a self-important muckety muck, I sure have a lot to learn.

Til Death Do Us Part

My husband insists that we will never again be good friends, given the irrevocable erosion of trust that has occurred between us. I'm not so sure about that. Over the course of the past year, he has managed to be so overtly asinine that I can only assume anything he's keeping from me must be the good stuff. In fact, I feel almost one hundred per cent secure in the knowledge that he has nothing bad left to hide.

Yesterday, as we sat together watching our daughter play badminton, we amused ourselves at the thought of our long awaited, twice cancelled, as yet to be rescheduled meeting with our lawyers. Expensive entertainment to be sure, but we think it will be fun to watch the two of them go at each other while the two of us just sit around giggling and shooting the shit. It's not that far fetched; we seem to have fallen comfortably back into some semblance of our old repartee. He didn't even bite my head off when I told him his attorney is an incompetent surgically enhanced boob.

Our daughter, naturally, didn't find our shared laughter quite so endearing. From the look on her face, I'd say she found it a bit repulsive. Frankly, she looked so grossed out he might as well have been feeling me up right there in the gym (he wasn't). Our kids have grown accustomed to our being apart, and they kind of like it that way. They see us each as individuals, sometimes even as people they actually enjoy and respect. Their biggest fear, I think, is that we will get back together and ruin everything.

Our children have been our staunchest supporters, no matter how low we have sunk. For that, I feel proud, not to mention lucky. I regret any hurt I have caused, particularly to them. Often, when we hurt people, we don't intend to. But that doesn't mean we aren't conscious of what we are doing. My husband and I are basically not mean people (okay; he can be a little mean), but I think we can both admit to some conscious battering of the other. At the time, we may have done it to help soothe our own wounds, but I think most of us know that hammering away at someone else's soul is never the answer -- at least not in the long run. And especially when other people you love get taken down along the way.

We are beginning to heal, which cannot be bad for the kids, no matter how disgusting they think it is. There's still a lot of shit to wade through, but it's a start.

Sweet and Sour

Yesterday, I sat across from my daughter in Starbucks, offering up moral support while she struggled to complete the thesis she must turn in later this week. I assured her it would be a beautiful shared intellectual moment, with her writing the best academic piece ever written on Mafia economics and me writing, well, something. I was content to savor the sweetness of the moments together.

I couldn't be absolutely certain that she was adhering to our plan better than I was, although her periodic questions about citation or whether certain Italian words are translatable into English suggested that she was at least being somewhat productive. I, on the other hand, was wiling away the hours enjoying the sweetness, to be sure, but in the back of my mind pondering my husband's recent emphatic reminder that I discarded him. Frankly, I think feeling discarded would be a step up from how I felt for years: dismissed, irrelevant, never cherished enough in the first place to be tossed away.

We're getting along these days, but the wounds run deep. There's certainly some validity to the way each of us feels. There's also probably a good deal of self involvement and distortion on both sides. There are two things I know to be true: we both -- legitimately -- felt wronged, and whatever wrongs each of us perpetrated upon the other, they don't cancel each other out. Never will.

The old adage is correct: two wrongs do not make a right. Well, it's usually correct, or so I thought, until I tasted Starbucks' new salty caramel sweet squares. I am not a big fan of salt, and I pretty much despise caramel. The combination struck me as absolutely vile, a mix of two of the most wrong ingredients my palate has ever encountered, except for oysters. But, being the polite and wildly adventurous person I am, I recently allowed someone to talk me into trying one. If you want to visit heaven before you die, check these things out. Proof that two wrongs can, on rare occasions, indeed make a right, and that there is a heaven on earth and you can even find it in deep dark suburbia.

As my taste buds would see it, my husband gave me more than my share of caramel and I, in turn, threw salt on his wounds. We were both wrong. But, as I've told him countless times, I am willing to accept fifty per cent of the blame for the break down of our marriage -- no more, no less. I may have discarded him and he very well may have dismissed me in the first place, but those two wrongs certainly didn't make us even. We may make things right one day, but stirring up different versions of nastiness in one pot isn't the way we're going to do it.

There are exceptions to every rule, though, which is why I'm going to have a salted caramel sweet square with my coffee this morning. At least for the time it takes me to savor the two and a half bites, all will be right with the world.

A Feather in My Cap

The countdown to the "wedding of the century" has begun in earnest, although I think it's too early in the century to presume that the label will stick. Nevertheless, it's hard to resist a good fairy tale; maybe this one will even have a happy ending. Or middle.

While Christians everywhere celebrated yesterday the resurrection of the Easter bunny (gosh, they are a weird bunch), my daughters and I settled in for hours of pre-nuptial programming. I've become so invested in the event I'm starting to talk funny. This morning, I was puzzled by a bit of anxiety, until I realized it must just be a case of vicarious jitters.

Our prenuptial festivities began with a compilation of Say Yes to the Dress episodes featuring some of the famous wedding consultants' most infamous princesses. The princesses came in all shapes and sizes, bringing all sorts of opinionated and fittingly mean-spirited entourages. The princesses stomped their glass-slippered feet and whined and pouted with great abandon as they each became increasingly disillusioned in their quest for a fairy tale. Whether they were too fat or too ordinary or too financially strapped or just too damn ugly to walk out of Kleinfeld's feeling like Cinderella, the spectacle was, in all cases, sobering.

Just when we couldn't bear to watch another loud mouthed spoiled bitch squeeze herself into a dress that would have looked better on a pig, we were rescued by a replay of the wedding of the last century. The fairy tale of Charles and Di was as fresh in my mind as if it had happened yesterday -- the beautiful princess marrying the somewhere short of hideous but certainly distinguished prince. Chills went down my spine when I first watched it thirty years ago. This time, it was certainly chilling, but for far different reasons.

There was no happily ever after for Charles and Di; frankly, there was hardly any happy at all. Even armed with hindsight, though, knowing that Charles' true love was actually a guest in the church and that Diana would die tragically only sixteen years later, the fairy tale seemed convincing. The promise of a blissful life as long as the bride's train, of a connection as strong and sly as the quick stolen glances between the two, of a future as sparkly as the princess's tiara. All of this seemed possible, and, frankly, I think it all seemed possible because of the gown. It almost made me a bit more sympathetic to the Say Yes princesses. I sort of get it. Sort of.

Will and Kate will no doubt learn some lessons from last century's biggest day. I certainly have. First of all, it really is mostly about the dress. For me, the magic evaporated as soon as Diana appeared in her pink Little Bo Peep ensemble -- her "comfortable" travel clothes for the train ride to the stodgy British estate where the couple would begin their life together. And, I think I learned that it's not such a bad thing to be mostly about the dress. What the heck; if happily ever after is, more often than not, just a fantasy, why not have the dress and the pictures to prove you had your stint as princess for a day. I also learned there are very few Jews in Britain; how else does one explain the haphazard collection of jewel tones sported by the female guests? Not a swatch of black fabric in the house.

I will spend some time this week searching for two pastel hats made of osprey feathers that will rival the one the Queen Mum wore when she watched Charles and Di tie the knot. And at four a.m. this coming Friday, my daughter and I will be watching the wedding of the twenty-first century in appropriately questionable style.

Pictures Do Lie

Whoever said "pictures don't lie" never spent an evening with a photographer.

Last night, I accompanied a friend and her camera to Buckingham Fountain -- not to be confused with Buckingham Palace, which is where I will be spending some time next weekend as a virtual guest at the royal wedding (pardon me, I mean The Royal Wedding). It was a beautiful evening as long as you were dressed, as we were, for winter; beggars can't be choosers, and we Chicagoans have become so accustomed to snow and freezing rain that a little icy wind on an April evening seems downright pleasant.

My friend has tried her hand at blogging, and finds the task of doing it on a daily basis daunting. "These things just roll off your laptop," she despaired when I forwarded her an advance copy of one of my quickies. "Like shit off a shovel," I responded, which I think was far more clever than anything I've written in recent weeks. I thought I was being insightful when I explained to her that writing is like taking pictures; you observe something, and somehow the part of you in charge of your particular craft conspires with the particular tool of your craft -- be it a computer keyboard or a digital camera -- to mold that observation into your version of what it should look like.

She protested. She insisted that photography is different. You're just stuck with what's presented to you, for better or for worse. I was unconvinced. We stood for quite a while watching the fountain, which, for an untrained observer like me was better than watching paint dry only because of the light show that continually altered the color of the undulating waters. She snapped away, constantly adjusting the shutter speed to change the lighting and capture the perfect pattern of light against the background of the dusky Chicago skyline. I watched the water; without color, the fountain looked like a stage for dancing ghosts, their translucent arms flapping eerily in the wind. In a sense, the colors ruined the ghostly performance, transforming the dancing apparitions into plain old colored water. At least that's what I saw.

Eventually, I began to peek at the screen on the back of my friend's camera. There were no dancing ghosts; there was no plain old colored water. Frankly, there wasn't even a fountain. There were dramatic bursts of color exploding like flames against a backdrop of weekend-empty buildings that seemed to overflow with activity. No lights, no people, yet the skyscrapers pierced the cloudy night sky with an energy that was contagious. In the moments captured by the lens of a camera, bright red and green and purple fireballs lapped away at the city while the buildings miraculously refused to burn. I looked away from the camera and back at the scene in front of me. Dancing ghosts and colored water. Dark buildings. Darkening sky. Nothing to write home about.

I'll stick with blogging; it's a pain in the ass to carry around a tripod and a big ass camera and deal with weather and all those other variables. I prefer to take my snapshots with words, transforming the dancing ghosts I see into whatever I want them to be.

It's More Than Just Lunch

I read a blog post today about about food. Not about cooking, or even so much about eating, but about how lives are interwoven and relationships are sealed through the simple rituals of dinner.

Not lunch, not breakfast. Dinner. The meal from which, theoretically, nobody needs to run off. Work and play are done for the day, and dinner is, in a sense, the day's dessert. The punctuation mark. The thing that prevents one day from running into the next as if there were no beginning, middle, or end.

If I could change one thing about how my children grew up, it would be to have insisted upon family dinners -- at least a few nights per week. We would have all come together, my husband and I and our three children, and written the day's final paragraph together. Deep down, I always knew it wasn't about the food; it was about the laughter, the arguments, the stories -- all the things that add up to connection. Period.

Family dinners in our house were few and far between. In the early years, dad was rarely home in time, and, later on, the kids' activities seemed to always get in the way. My complete absence of culinary skills or any desire to acquire them surely did not help the situation. But, again, it's not about the food. Some of my fondest memories are of our family's most legendary moments, and, come to think of it, most of those moments happened at the dinner table. On those rare occasions we were all there together.

Though there has been little progress on the official end of things in our divorce, we have taken great strides toward repairing our relationship for the benefit of our family. Not just for the kids, but for us as well. For now, the relationship just involves a shared meal, or the shared enjoyment of watching our youngest daughter play badminton. In a month we will share the joy of watching our eldest child graduate from college. For now, at least, it seems we will be able to amicably share all the fruits of the life we created together all those years ago. For now, we keep the conversation light, and we avoid all topics that contributed to the implosion of our marriage. For now.

Maybe our lives really will turn out all right. Maybe I'll even continue to read culinary blogs. Stranger things have happened. After all, it's never really about the food.

He's No Henry V! Or Is He?

Righteous indignation can be a fascinating phenomenon, particularly when the righteously indignant one has been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. I've probably resorted to it a few times in my day, reasoning, I assume, that the best defense is a good offense. Still, though, I'd like to think my arrogance knows some bounds.

My favorite perpetual perpetrator of totally unwarranted righteous indignation is our former governor. On the eve of his second corruption trial, Blago has been relatively quiet, but still managed, the other day, to come up with an absurd little gem. He compared himself to the brave medieval King Henry V, a medieval king who, at least according to Shakespeare, believed so wholeheartedly in peace and his country's well-being he was willing to die for it. I'm no historian, but I don't think the revered king ever waged a battle to just save his own ass. My guess is Blago wouldn't even risk a paper cut unless there was something big in it for him. Really big.

So, if Blago was referring to selfless heroics and the honor earned by a leader who risks his own hide to join his men in battle, I am truly in awe of his capacity for delusional self importance. I don't think that's the comparison to which he was referring, though. I did a little research, and discovered that Henry V died of dysentery. Aha! Therein lies the more credible parallel. Blago is nowhere near death (if his enthusiastic hair growth is any indication), but the shit that flows out of his mouth is surely symptomatic of the disease that killed the great king.

It's Easter, and even we non-believers could certainly benefit from a bit of reflection and self awareness. I just received an email full of Easter Bunny wisdom, and one bit of advice seemed particularly pertinent to Blago. "Keep your paws off everyone else's jelly beans!" Come to think of it, Bugs Bunny also weighs in with some insightful commentary: "If an interesting monster can't have an interesting hairdo I don't know what this world is coming to."

Whatever. With Blago back on the front page, it's time for all of us to take another dive into the rabbit hole.

Born to Run (My Life)

Twenty-two years ago today, my life was forever altered by the birth of my first child. I've been a mother for less than half my life, but I can't remember being anything else.

Which didn't make her hurricane-like arrival in my house yesterday any less jarring. She is home for Easter break, and she has exploded into my daily life, as she always does, with great fanfare and a seemingly endless trail of stuff. She is fastidious -- or so she says -- about the common areas in her apartment at school, but the moment she arrives in the house she grew up in my blissfully uncluttered kitchen becomes strewn with shoes and purses and empty cracker boxes and opened mail and various and sundry dishes. I wouldn't have it any other way. Well, I would, but I know I won't, and that's okay.

When my oldest child walks into a room -- any room; not just my kitchen -- you can't help but notice she's there. Just shy of five foot two, she somehow seems larger than life. Maybe it's her ready smile, maybe it's the clunky heels; whatever it is, it's difficult not to feel as if you're stuck in her shadow when she's around. She is a powerful presence.

Even Manny and Leo, both of whom have been afflicted this week with a worrisome case of lethargy, sprang off their lazy perches to greet her when she arrived. She called me in a panic; one of Manny's eyes was sealed shut, and no amount of hot compresses would pry it open. Manny was unfazed, too excited by her arrival to be bothered by a somewhat disturbing permanent wink. What bothered my daughter the most was not the state of Manny's eye (I think she knew, deep down, it was probably not life threatening). What bothered her the most was how grossed out she was trying to dissolve the goo with a moist towel. "If I can't deal with crap in my dog's eye, what kind of mother will I be?" I smiled.

Twenty-two years and one day ago I probably would not have been as poised as I am today about canine eye boogers, and I certainly would never have imagined how many dirty diapers I would change without blinking an eye. Or how much my life would suddenly be about someone other than myself. I assured my daughter that she would, one day, do just fine.

I am proud of all her accomplishments, and hope she realizes all her dreams. Especially the one about being a mom.

Happy birthday sweetie!

A Toy Story

If Barbie is really to blame for girls' distorted body images, why isn't there at least a small generation of young men trying desperately to look like Ninja Turtles?

Don't get me wrong; I've got nothing against finger pointing. It's just that I think we should give girls more credit. Heck, it was pretty obvious to me that Barbie and her little sister Skipper were just toys. As much as I coveted Skipper's thick mane of straight blond hair, I noticed it grew in rather unnatural clumps out of holes drilled in her empty plastic head. And for goodness sake, where were the nipples? Even as a six year old, I sensed something was amiss.

So now this young woman comes along and builds a really cool life size papier mache Barbie which has eating disorder survivors and professionals everywhere nodding their heads. Finally, the unattainable female shape to which girls have supposedly aspired for a half century teeters precariously on her skinny little ankles for all the world to see. Aha. And all these years I was blaming my mother.

Okay, Barbie, with her absurdly large nipple-less breasts and impossibly small waist may have been more of an influence in some girls' lives than she was in mine (to me she was just another shiksa; we had very little in common anyway), but still, even the most avid fans must have known that nobody's feet can actually be stuck permanently in the high heel position. At least nobody who's still smiling. Far more disturbing are the airbrushed images of models assaulting us from billboards and magazines and "reality" shows everywhere. Women who actually seem real, whose idealized skin and body parts actually can seem attainable. Life size Barbie is certainly scary looking, but she's ridiculous enough to not be a threat.

Frankly, I kind of wish the men of my generation had taken G.I. Joe a bit more seriously.

Telling Tails

Last night, my family blended with my friend's family, as has become our tradition, and we once again told the story of Passover. Each of us has a particular favorite aspect of the Seder to look forward to. For some it's the required four cups of wine, for others, the amazing desserts; for me, it's the hard boiled eggs and the lemon chicken. Which just goes to show, there is no accounting for taste.

Nobody really seems to pay much attention to the story, even though my friend's Haggadah is carefully designed to tie the thousands of years old tale to modern day issues. But, as with most ritualistic holiday meals, we all enjoy the sense of connection and community. And we all, I'm guessing, eat too much matzoh and experience what very well might have been the eleventh plague: constipation.

Every Passover, I'm reminded that it must have taken the Jews so long to pass through the desert because they could barely walk waiting for that damn unleavened bread to, well, pass through. A few days of the crisp flat delicacy (which is truly heavenly when smeared with butter) and even the mighty Egyptians would have been walking with their tails between their legs.

Which brings me to the latest canine crisis in my house. The other day, when the now morbidly obese Manny and I took a walk, I was horrified to see his normally uplifted curly tail pointing straight down between his slightly bowed hind legs. He looked as if he had just ridden a horse. Naturally, giving my dogs far more credit for empathy than they deserve, I assumed Manny was depressed that we had to drop Leo off at home (he is suffering from his monthly post-chemo exhaustion). I tried everything -- poking, pulling, tossing Manny extra goodies -- but still the tail remained in a disturbingly downward position.

So I rushed Manny to the vet yesterday, and after she poked and prodded and pulled a bit of paper towel out of his butt, she concluded he was probably suffering the effects of some "indiscreet eating." Matzoh! He somehow must have gotten his paws on some. I had spent two days worrying that Manny was either deathly ill or severely depressed, and the old guy was just celebrating Passover!

I'm watching him closely; his tail seems to be elevating slowly, and it is even regaining its perky curl. I think we'll all lay off the matzoh for a while, and, like all unpleasantness, this too shall pass.

A Double Wide With a View

My friends are always looking out for me, which is why one of them sent me a picture the other day of a mobile home she thought might interest me. On the outside, it looked fairly ordinary, but the asking price -- which, based upon other trailers in the same park, would be received -- was two and a half million dollars.

Forgive me if I'm wrong, but my understanding has always been that a mobile home can actually move, which would sort of take the "location" component out of the pricing equation. Sure, this trailer is parked on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, but couldn't I just buy one here for a song and drive it out there? So what if I might have to wait a bit for a parking space, or pay a little more once I get one. Even factoring in gas, I'm pretty sure I'd still come out ahead.

Anyway, what's so good about a bluff overlooking the Pacific? Tsunamis, earthquakes, forest fires -- living there is like sitting on top of a time bomb. Except for the occasional tornado, the Midwest holds very few surprises. We know full well there's a chance we'll wake up one morning in the latter half of April to several inches of freezing snow. I'd much rather do without spring than live in constant fear of a major calamity.

Wouldn't I? As I trudged from my car to Starbucks through the slippery April snow this morning, narrowly avoiding a repeat of the ass-over-teakettle fall I had two months ago when it was really winter, I started to think living dangerously in California wouldn't necessarily be such a bad thing. Maybe I'd even like the somewhat wild and swinging California lifestyle -- not that you can't have that here, as long as you don't mind being home by nine. But people who live on the edge, always on the cusp of disaster, know how to enjoy the moment. I could learn some good life lessons from those folks, and maybe have a bit of fun along the way.

Just out of curiosity, I'm going to price out some mobile homes. I'm sure my daughter won't mind doing a "Thelma and Louise" adventure with me (minus the drive off the cliff, of course). Finishing up high school with your friends is so overrated. She'll understand, especially when I explain to her how pretty the view is going to be.

Collateral Damage

The problem with Leo being sick -- other than Leo being sick -- is that Manny is getting so fat he can barely leap onto the bed without taking a running start. More like a waddling start.

Don't get me wrong. Leo is still thriving. The only indication that there's anything terminally or even temporarily wrong with him is a slightly finicky appetite. He's an old guy, and he's had a finicky appetite before, but these days I worry that it's because of his cancer or his anti-nausea pills or his occasional chemotherapy, and I know it's important for him to keep his weight up.

So while Leo is licking anti-nausea pills secreted within gobs of peanut butter off my finger, Manny gets his own special spoonful. When Leo gets bored with his breakfast, Manny is there, with lightning speed, his head digging furiously in the bowl and his wagging obese ass defying me to drag him away. When I try to coax Leo into finishing his dinner by adding a little crumbled hamburger or shredded cheese, I have to give Manny some, too; otherwise, he'll be face first in Leo's meal the minute I turn my back for a second. Manny may need a running start to leap onto the bed, but he's as crafty and agile as a fox when it comes to snarfing someone else's food.

Come to think of it, I'm sporting a bit of an extra spare tire these days as well. Could it be that Manny isn't the only one getting fat from Leo's illness? I've been known to grab an extra spoonful (more like a ladle-full) of peanut butter here and there. Certainly the dreary weather doesn't help. I get spoiled easily by a rare nice day, and even though I no longer have the frigid dead of winter as an excuse, somehow I've managed to skip a lot of walks. My back yard is a poop minefield.

So add to the emotional stress of Leo's illness some extra fat in my diet and fewer walks and lord knows how many consecutive days of lousy weather, and my motivation to exercise has gone the way of Manny's belly, which nearly grazes the floor when he walks. My exercise routine today consisted of changing into workout clothes (oy), bending over to tie my gym shoes (oy), driving to the health club, parking at the health club, and putting my seat back for just a moment so I could take what turned out to be a forty-five minute nap. Then I had to drive all the way home and climb a whole flight of stairs to get into bed and finish my nap. At which point Manny took a waddling leap up to join me, and Leo -- the sick one who's made us both fat -- leapt up like a prize thoroughbred to claim his spot by my feet.

Leo's gonna be around for a long time -- I'm sure of that. If Manny and I are to survive Leo's illness, we need to come up with a plan. We'll start tomorrow.

Being Prepared

I'm challenged.

Okay, well that's obvious. What I meant to say is I've been challenged, to write something as funny and clever as Dave Barry's legendary piece on his colonoscopy experience. Where's the level playing field. Has anyone everyone ever experienced anything as hilarious as a colonoscopy? In hindsight (pardon the term), at least.

I can't compete with Dave Barry on any level, but to try to top his colonoscopy column would be as impossible as sticking a scope up someone's ass and guiding it through miles of twisted colon. Well, more impossible, I suppose. A team of crack (again, pardon the term) medical professionals even managed to make their way through my colon, which was deemed to be "torturous." Just as dogs take on the personalities of their owners, so too, apparently, do our internal organs.

Barry's roll-on-the-floor funny piece was filled with cheap humor. Which is certainly not a bad thing. But how do I compete with cheeky (oops) observations such as the one he made about the preparation solution, which he noted should never get into the hands of our enemies. Or his description of the preparation solution: it tastes "like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon." I defy anyone who has been through the procedure to come up with a better one.

I was talking to a friend yesterday, and asked him if he had ever read the Dave Barry colonoscopy column. He had, and proceeded to share with me his experience with the prep. Apparently, he was not due back in town until late the night before the procedure, so he asked his wife to mix it up for him and have it ready in the refrigerator. When he arrived home, he obediently set to work drinking up the liter of what was supposed to taste like, well, shit. He was pleasantly surprised when the reputedly vile liquid tasted like lemonade. The good news in all this is that while he was chugging his kids' lemonade, at least they didn't drink the preparation solution.

My experience with colonoscopy was unfortunate only in the sense that I flunked the prep, which meant the guy who is still paying off medical school loans and spent years of rigorous and exhausting schooling and interning to get where he is today had to somehow finish up what I had failed to doo (no, that's not a typo). Kind of makes "grave digger" seem like an honorable profession.

One thing I'm sure of: Dave will not be able to compete with the piece I'll write about the mammogram I'm due for in a couple of months. Stay tuned.

Once Upon a Time

Yesterday I took a walk in a neighborhood park I hadn't been to in at least a hundred years. Or ten, but, really, what's the difference?

As I strolled in circles around the looping path and watched the young parents with their young children, I felt more than a little nostalgic for the days of softball practices on frigid early spring days and idyllic stints in the elaborate playground on the rare warm ones. I'm pretty sure I didn't really enjoy freezing my ass off waiting for my kids' turn at bat, and I'm also fairly certain the playground romps were exhausting, but still, it's a slice of life that seems to have come and gone much too quickly.

I remember being at the same park one day years ago, soon after my father had passed away. I watched a grandfather push a child in a swing and I felt envious and cheated, filled with regret that I had never dragged my father to a playground with the kids on one of his visits. It's a snapshot I wish I had in my mind, of my father pushing my children in a swing, or chasing them through the maze of bridges and slides.

As I rounded the bend near one of the pint sized baseball fields, I heard a child throwing a tantrum. Oh, how I longed for the good old days. It reminded me of the time I was driving my older children to gymnastics in rush hour traffic, feeling as if my head would explode listening to my two-month old scream her head off in her infant seat. My mom called, and, ignoring the strain in my voice, asked me to hold the phone up so she could hear my daughter's cries. At the time, I wanted to throttle both of them. Now I sort of get why my mom thrilled at the sound of the fit. Sort of. For me, it's a snapshot of an ugly scene, but a snapshot just the same, one that has withstood the ravages of time.

It was nice, I must admit, strolling unencumbered in the park, answering to nobody until it was time to pick my daughter up at the high school. It would have been nice, too, to be there with my young children, the three of them running me ragged as I tried desperately to grab a moment on the bench. Ahh, the good old days!

Hold the Sugar and Spice!

If it's wrong to paint a little boy's toenails neon pink, does that mean it's taboo to put a little girl in shit kickers and a tool belt?

There's always some hullabaloo or another going on in the world, some earth shattering controversy that sends the media into a frenzy of viewer polls. And so it was with the recent J.Crew ad depicting a mom painting her young son's toenails a bright shade of pink. Both mom and son are smiling, but apparently there are many folks out there who are not. Half -- yes half -- of the folks responding to one unofficial-but-who-cares-let's-report-it-anyway poll found the thing horribly offensive. Really? Would it have been okay if the mom had chosen neon blue?

One of the happiest days of my life was the day it became not only acceptable but fashionable for girls to wear boy-style sneakers (or, for you folks in the Midwest, gym shoes). I couldn't pitch my pointy-toed white Keds quickly enough, couldn't wait to slip into my clunky new Adidas with the three stripes on each side. If my brother had taken my pointy-toed Keds out of the garbage and worn them, I might have questioned his fashion sense but I'm not sure how much of a fuss I would have raised about his manliness. Of course, I can't speak for his friends.

Therein lies the problem, I suppose. Though mean girls may snicker and look askance at tomboys with unkempt hair and baggy jeans, they don't hold a candle to the boys who will have a field day with one of their own should he dare do show up in a skirt. It's a fact of life; I get it.

But why are adults fanning the flames, dictating what a little boy can or cannot do, be it in the privacy of his own home or the relative privacy of an ad for an adult clothing store. (I'm guessing most of the kids in the boy model's nursery school class do not peruse magazines where they would come across the offending photo.)

I bet there are lots of perfectly virile men out there, men who would never even think about taking a little blue pill, who sported plenty of ribbons and bows and dresses and, yes, even nail polish back in the day while their sisters played with Matchbox cars and shouted obscenities at the driverless vehicles. It's what growing up is all about, isn't it? And when it's time for sexual identity to really kick in, there are bigger issues for kids to deal with than nail enamel and clothing.

We've come a long way from the days in which a boy would be teased for wearing an earring. Well, some of us have.

Heavy Breathing

"The only reason I would take up jogging is so that I could hear heavy breathing again." Erma Bombeck

Last night, I instructed my yoga students to breathe into whatever body parts were feeling, to put it mildly, discomfort. Among the four of us, if you gathered up all the aches and pains and injuries and scars, you could build a human in need of a full body cast. It was, truly, a kvetch-fest.

My muscle of contention was located somewhere in my right hip. With all due respect to yogic teachings, the breathing barely made a dent in the nagging pain, which comes and goes, coincidentally, based upon whether I am foolish enough to attempt a head clearing jog. It's a tough choice: psychic relief versus a functioning hip joint. Sometimes, you just gotta do what you gotta do.

So, genius that I am, the other day when sun appeared and the temperature soared, I truly believed that a run would be so exhilarating my hip wouldn't even notice. I began running when I was in law school, when I was plagued by uncertainty and a remarkable -- even for me -- lack of focus, and much of my mental and physical energy was consumed by a losing battle with eating disorders. A friend was convinced he could help, and dragged me out every day for a week for a run. I whined, I resisted, but I kept going -- due more to his persistence than my own.

The going was tough at the beginning, but, without a middle aged hip or other naturally deteriorating body parts to hamper my progress, I started to like it. My friend was able to step aside fairly quickly as I developed a bit of an addiction to running. The changes in my body were nothing compared to the changes in my psyche, as running gradually replaced my bulimia. Conservation of addictions, I suppose. Like energy, they don't disappear; they simply find somewhere else to go.

I ran for years. No amount of biking or walking or vigorous weight lifting or even yoga has ever succeeded in replicating the psychological benefits of running, however fleeting. I would solve my problems and the problems of humanity at large; I would write entire lectures for work in my head, and I would beat back the demons of the day.

These days, I choose to face the demons without the crutch of eating disorders and, except for one day about every six months, without running. I rely on a variety of activities to compensate for my old addictions when I need to free up my brain and beat back the demons. I write, I exercise, I eat comfort food without remorse, I play solitaire, and I watch NCIS reruns. Occasionally, I even go out with friends. Whatever it takes.

And, on rare occasions, I ignore my rational self and the perennial dull ache in my hip and lace up my running shoes. For a good hour after my journey, I am feeling no pain.

Anticipation

The storm never came yesterday. At least not to my little corner of the deep dark northern suburbs of Chicago.

Which reminds me: why worry? The predictions of doom by meteorologists nationwide could not have been more dire. Bright swaths of color highlighted every television weather map; regular networks borrowed segments from the experts on The Weather Channel, clearly believing their own forecasters to be too wet behind the ears to handle the impending calamity.

I had nightmares about the oncoming storm to end all storms. To be sure, it was a welcome break from my usual nightmares about the storms raging in my own life; sometimes I actually feel as if I've been sucked into the vortex of a funnel cloud, my psychic belongings being tossed around like dollhouse furniture. But the frightening photos of a real tornado that obliterated half a town in Iowa and of the aftermath of twisters in Wisconsin reminded me to get a grip; things could be a lot worse.

Lately, my well-meaning but -- in my humble opinion -- overly zealous born again Christian friend has been sending me frequent inspirational emails about Anticipation (with a capital "A"). Not Carly Simon's version of anticipation, which worked well for ketchup ads, but the real deal. Anticipation in my friend's emails refers to the comfort we should feel as we contemplate what awaits us when this life is done. Well, call me a modern day Doubting Thomas, but screw that. I'm not going to waste any more of my time looking forward to something that might never happen.

Sure, I love a little anticipation (with a small "a") when it fills my head with positive thoughts. It's called looking forward to things; it's what gets me through the tougher days. But my mom always told me not to wish my life away, so I try really hard to find enjoyment in the present. Really hard, sometimes almost to the point of exhaustion.

And as to the anticipation of natural disasters and horrible accidents and other catastrophes, really, what's the point. It's not that I'm opposed to being prepared, but why waste time living in fear. Storms will come and go, and most of the time they won't be as bad for most of us as the prognosticators led us to believe. And if they are that bad, there probably isn't anything we can do about it. But the present moment can, every once in a while, be a fleeting bit of joy, so I try to pay attention. Why worry? Why miss out?

Sunday Best

Life is good when it's sunny and eighty degrees on April 10th. If it weren't for my still sore left shoulder and the dark cubes spewed by my brand new refrigerator yesterday, I would swear there is no such thing as black ice.

The other night, back when there was still a wintry chill in the air, I had dinner in a pizza joint out in the sticks. It was good, in an unremarkable sort of way. It was the same sort of unremarkable goodness that distinguished the little breakfast joint across the street, a place I realized I had been to last summer.

When I recognized the one stop light town in which I had spent one of the most pleasant summer Sunday mornings ever, I could almost feel the warmth, smell the lush grass, relive the lazy contentment. A relaxing drive -- not too long but just long enough to make us feel as if we were some place far away, a comfortably filling breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee in old-fashioned white ceramic cups, and a brief stint in a sunny park working together on a crossword puzzle. Heavenly, in an unremarkable sort of way. Give me that day over a trip around the world any time.

It's not like I'm complaining. Like I said, life is good on a warm and sunny Sunday in April. Everything seems to sparkle -- especially my brand new fridge, which will start spewing clear and non-toxic ice by this afternoon (or so I'm told). I might even go crazy this afternoon and buy some food to fill the clean, sweet smelling shelves. (Ooh, but it looks so pretty without all the clutter.)

This morning, breakfast will be simple and solitary, and the coffee will be my usual Starbucks (although they do offer ceramic mugs upon request). Not the same. I'll have to eventually slog through the Sunday crossword puzzle by myself, and my long enough but not too long drive will be to work. But that's okay. I'll have the top down, the music blaring, and I'll be daydreaming about all the surprising and unremarkable spring and summer Sundays that lie ahead.

Shop; You Won't Drop

According to a recent study, shopping prolongs life. Okay, the study found that more frequent shopping was, along with several other factors, linked to longevity, but researchers were careful to note that the actual shopping wasn't necessarily the key. Screw that. Shopping is good for you. Period.

Which is why, on the days I am working at the yoga store, I try to purchase several items for myself. It's like getting plastic surgery without going under the knife. Forever young, forever alive. Even though the researchers would probably surmise I am reaping the health benefits just by being in the social and uplifting environment of a retail store, I like to cover all the bases.

I suppose the researchers have a point when they attribute the life extending benefits of shopping to the things that naturally accompany the pastime, like more walking and more chances to get out of the house and interact with other humans. But I really find it hard to believe that the woman who shopped feverishly for a good forty-five minutes and then bitched at me for ten minutes about the prices in our store isn't going to die young of a coronary. Get a grip, woman.

Then there's the issue of online shopping. I defy anyone to tell me that picking out fun things on a computer screen in the comfort of your own home doesn't have its own health benefits. The mere act of acquiring, the joyful anticipation of a package, and the quality albeit brief interaction with the UPS guy when you sign for your bundle of joy must certainly add on a few years. Especially when you're not dealing with unfamiliar fitting room mirrors and pesky salespeople. Good for several quality birthdays.

If the researchers are correct about the health benefits of socializing, I wonder if deep relationships with close friends are as effective as brief shopping interactions in prolonging our time here. Probably not. There's just something peculiarly therapeutic about the superficial. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit to the fulfillment I can feel after ten minutes of senseless babbling with an enthusiastic customer. Even the nasty ones have a somewhat medicinal effect, offering me fodder for some senseless, gossipy babbling and eye rolling with my co-workers. Sometimes there's nothing more artery-clearing than meeting someone who makes you realize you are nowhere near the biggest asshole on the planet.

I expect to glean a good ten years from the delivery of my new refrigerator this afternoon. Fifteen minutes of solid socializing in the appliance store plus an extended opportunity to schmooze with the delivery folks plus a long overdue switch to uncurdled dairy products -- I'm going to have more golden years than I can handle. Too bad the years can't be added on before all the aches and pains of aging kick in.

Not Your Mother's Bling

Now I've heard everything! Am I the last person on earth to get wind of the new craze: vajazzling? Apparently my computer doesn't even recognize the term, if the fact that it underlined the word for me in bright red is any indication.

The somewhat disturbing concept came up when I taught my very spiritual yoga class the other day -- you know, the one where we get centered by airing all the week's dirty laundry and calling the offenders in our lives all sorts of disgusting names and kvetching about all our aches and pains. As if we weren't already chakra deep in spirituality, my prize pupil mentioned vajazzling. It has a website and everything.

As many of you either already know or have guessed, vajazzling is a new fad which -- and forgive me if I get too technical here -- involves bejeweling one's v-jay-jay. (I can't believe my computer didn't underline v-jay-jay!) Bedazzling the bikini area. With "stick-on" Swarovski crystals. Ouch!!! As if bikini waxing isn't misogynistic enough. What if a crystal gets stuck in the wrong place? What if it gets lost? Oy, my legs are crossed thinking about it. I feel like a guy at a bris.

Well, all this talk about decking out female genitals had me and my yoga devotees in hysterics. We put our very mindful heads together, and, for the life of us, could not figure why any woman would want to take such pains to decorate something that, um, usually doesn't see the light of day. And, we unanimously agreed that if the point is to entice a man, it's pointless, since even in its worst moments a woman's vagina is about the most beautiful thing a man's eyes think they can behold (well, except for a good pair of jugs). Odds are he won't even notice the bling, it certainly won't make sex any better for the woman, and there's always the risk that, in his excitement, he will dislodge some of the adornments and possibly cause a medical emergency.

I say take those Swarovski crystals and turn them into a pair of earrings, or a pendant. Something useful.

Going Bananas

I admit I've never considered myself to be a true contender for the "Good Housekeeping" seal of approval, but sometimes I surprise myself with my lack of credentials. This morning I found a petrified banana in the bottom of a decorative pitcher on my kitchen counter.

As always, I looked at the bright side. There were no fruit flies buzzing around, there was no odor (quite a different experience from the day I poured milk that looked like cottage cheese and smelled like vomit into my cereal bowl; hence, the new refrigerator), and the rock hard piece of fruit that was only recognizable as a banana because of the "Chiquita" sticker that survived the fossilization was shaped like a horseshoe. That's good luck, right?

No harm, no foul. My discovery of the relic -- I tremble to think how long it's been there -- reminded me that life is full of surprises, sometimes even good ones. Around every corner, behind every door, and, yes, in my kitchen, at the bottom of every pitcher, little marvels await. They appear when you least expect them, and certainly not when you're wasting a lot of energy looking.

I watched what should have been a horrifying story on television this morning, about a young couple with a young child. Both the mother and father, within days of each other, were diagnosed with different forms of late stage, incurable cancer. In all likelihood, both will die before their daughter even gets her first report card. But these two people were a picture of hope, having learned to appreciate all they have rather than dwell upon what they have not. Their friends have organized themselves into a well-oiled love and money spewing machine. The couple are doing what each of us wishes we had done back in those days: enjoying every precious moment with their child. Who knows? Maybe they'll make it.

I'm convinced my horseshoe shaped banana has been there for quite some time. How else can I explain all the blessings in my life? There are lots of things in my life I anticipate with great joy, but I'm willing to bet there are just as many lovely little surprises lurking about which I remain blissfully ignorant. Those discoveries will no doubt be as sweet as the dehydrated, condensed fruit encased within my horseshoe shaped peel.

The Right to Choose

I have a lot of earth shattering decisions to make today.

Both my laptop and my refrigerator have died, and I can't decide which to replace first. Food or food for thought; I know I can't go very long without water, but I wonder how long I can last without either of those other essentials.

Granted, there are back up plans for both. I have a desktop, but when I tried to pack it up this morning and take it with me to Starbucks there were a few too many cables in the way. And it didn't fit so well in my purse. I also have an old -- and functioning -- refrigerator in the laundry room, but it just seems so far away when my bagel pops out of the toaster and I realize the butter is not within arm's reach. Talk about hardship.

As if the refrigerator/laptop dilemma weren't enough to send me to the pill cabinet, today is election day in deep dark suburbia. Confusion and mixed signals are the order of the day. On every spare patch of public grass there are indecipherable clusters of political signs. "Vote Yes!" and "Vote No!" signs stand shoulder to shoulder. Placards in every color of the rainbow jostle each other for position on the valuable real estate, shouting out names of candidates whose names I only recognize because of the signs themselves. The shorter the name, the bigger the letters, the more likely it will register on the brains of passing motorists.

Even my own front lawn has entered the political fray, speaking out of both sides of its mouth. I'm in a prime location for signage, and it's so hard to say no to friends. My lawn sports signs encouraging passersby to vote for five people for four spots on the school board. If I have to just rely on name recognition, I'm screwed. Oops.

As always, writing things down has given me clarity. I'm definitely going with the laptop; the refrigerator can wait. I'm getting blisters on my fingers from writing my Starbucks posts in long hand, and my eyes are straining from trying to read my abominable handwriting as I transcribe my thoughts onto my desktop. The weakened eyes will affect my ability to make an informed (sign-based) election decision, and my torn fingers will affect my accuracy in the voting booth. Not-so-instant gratification on the food front seems a small price to pay for participating fully in the democratic process.

Yep, definitely the laptop. The fridge will have to wait.

Hooked

The other day, I told my youngest daughter about my favorite aunt, Libby. She lived nearby and had no children of her own. She was, as I recall, a good cook, though given my mother's limited repertoire and aversion to anything with flavor, it just could have been that she did cook.

Libby drove -- something my mother didn't do back in those days -- and she would occasionally pick me up in her little Chevy Nova to take me to a crafts store. My mother would never have been caught dead in such a place. Libby tried in vain to teach me to knit, and to crochet, but I had inherited my mother's impatience and pitiable lack of small motor coordination. But I loved to hook rugs. It was simple and rhythmic -- wrap the wool around the hook, push it through the hole, hook it onto the edge, pull -- and so satisfying when the skinny strands of wool would gradually morph into plush designs.

My aunt -- my father's older sister -- was as chubby as my mom was thin, as unselfconscious about her appearance as my mom was obsessed. She smoked, she ate, she had a deep throaty laugh. There was an indescribable comfort to curling up in the embrace of her presence; she was certainly no substitute for my mom, but she was one of the people in my life who could occasionally be called upon to fill in the gaps. Without her and her Chevy Nova, my hooked bunny rug with the powder blue background would have retained its rough edges and never been sewn into a pillow.

I've often felt that my own children have missed out, not having any relatives nearby to fill in the gaps, to pick up the slack. A close friend offered to take my daughter shoe shopping the other day -- not so much because my daughter needs any shoes but because my friend, the mother of sons, enjoys borrowing some "daughter time." She's never had anyone's hair to braid, never shopped for homecoming dresses, never had the dubious pleasure of sharing her home with a miniature version of herself (raging hormones and all).

My daughter and my friend always enjoy the novelty of each other, and are as comfortable with each other as, well, a favorite aunt and niece. But when I told my daughter about the whole favorite aunt thing, she seemed puzzled. "I don't need a favorite aunt, mom. You take me anywhere I want to go."

For me, it don't get any better than that!

Oh, Henry

"To take what there is in life and use it, without waiting forever in vain for the preconceived, to dig deep into the actual and get something out of that; this, doubtless, is the right way to live." Yesterday, my yoga instructor offered up this quote from Henry James, in support of his own beliefs about stress avoidance and bliss grabbing. Even back in the late nineteenth century, there were some well respected folks who appeared to believe in the somewhat hedonistic yogic principle that life -- the present life -- is there for the taking, and it's a waste of time and energy to wish for something that just isn't there.

And then comes the FDA (The Federal Fun Destruction Agency), putting on its Big Brother hat and promulgating regulations which would require various restaurant chains and other businesses that provide food to post calorie counts on menu boards.

I have experienced this nightmarish governmental interference in New York, where the state already imposes such rules. Frighteningly large numbers emblazoned on once delectable looking menus have forever ruined my enjoyment of Auntie Anne's pretzels. Though I rarely order anything other than plain old coffee at Starbucks, I have now been forever shamed from doing so for fear that a "piggy" mask will be slapped on my face the moment the words "mocha frappucino" escape my lips. Not to mention the extra rolls of fat that will immediately appear around my midsection as my suddenly failing heart ceases to beat.

Have I missed something? Does everyone on the planet not have access to the Internet, which can offer up, at the mere touch of a button, specific calorie and nutritional information on anything someone might want to put in her mouth? Well, almost anything. As I see it, the folks who don't have Internet access are probably not frequenting Auntie Anne's or Starbucks anyway, and, for the rest of us, well, there is such a thing as TOO MUCH INFORMATION! Why should I suffer just because somebody else has no idea that seemingly innocuous snacks are actually fattening? Most of us know the truth; we are just choosing to ignore it, and enjoy.

Thankfully, movie theatres have managed to get themselves exempted from the frightening administrative rules.

True, a bucket of popcorn and a soda can contain a full day's worth of an average person's recommended calorie intake, but does anyone really order that stuff in a movie theatre thinking about heart health or figure enhancement? It's about escapism, stress relief, and -- I know this is a dirty word -- pleasure, guys; the folks who prefer to have all the fun sucked out of their lives are sitting home checking their stock portfolios and nibbling on celery and carrots.

I'm guessing Henry James never experienced the pure joy of sitting in a movie theatre munching on popcorn, but when he said "dig deep into the actual and get something out of that" he had clearly experienced a premonition of a tub full of greasy, salty kernels.

"Start living the life you imagined," said Henry. "Don't pass it by--the immediate, the real, the only, the yours." I bet the guy never even heard of a calorie.

Don's Ho?

No, I have not hit menopause and grown a green goatee. That's me in my hula skirt. (An old friend I haven't seen in a while claimed to miss my smiling face and complained that I don't even put hot pictures of myself on my blog, so who am I to deprive anyone of a little bit of eye candy.)

Actually, the "hula spud" photo is the profile picture I've used on various dating sites, which explains why my inbox overflows daily with the involuntary eye twitches of cyber winkers. Really, who could resist? No worries, blog fans, I have not broken my vow of silence in the computer dating world, but the emails will continue to flow in for a hottie like me until my subscriptions run out, and, if you do the math, it's cheaper (and often more entertaining) than going to the movies.

This morning I woke to a wink from a guy who at least knows, if not what he wants, what he doesn't want, and is clearly fed up with all the women who just don't measure up. His somewhat angry profile amounted to a laundry list of do not contact me ifs. Do not contact me if you are over fifty-four. Do not contact me if you are looking for a loan. Do not contact me if you have no pictures. Do not contact me if you are not athletic, or if you like to talk about your ex. Do not contact me if you include cats in your pictures, although dogs are okay. The list was endless. Frankly, given his incredibly high standards, I'm kind of flattered I made the cut on his winking expedition.

If it weren't for my vow of silence, I'd seriously consider responding because I like a guy who demands the best and isn't willing to settle. Okay, I admit it. I'm competitive and I just want to see if I can be the one to turn things around for this perennial nay-sayer (kind of like turning a gay man straight). And I definitely agree with him on the dog/cat thing, although I'm not quite certain what that says about the two middle aged women who flank him in his profile picture. My rule of thumb has been to keep everyone else out of my photos -- human or animal -- just so nobody gets the wrong idea.

I do like to give potential suitors a variety of views, so, hypothetically of course, if I contact Mr. Do Not I would add another photo or two to my montage. I was thinking about this one:

I was wearing Spanx, which is why I look less like a smoking hot potato than a stick figure with about as much sex appeal as a frozen French fry, but some people go for that sort of thing. At least my lips look extra full and pouty (the fat has to go somewhere!).

Why torture the poor fellow though, just to stoke my own ego. (And why break any more vows?) My plump lips remain sealed.

Four Years in Four Minutes

It’s weird that on my final visit to Georgetown before my daughter’s graduation I ended up staying in the hotel on campus. Not far from the places in which I’ve stayed over the years, but a bit of a hike from all the wonderful shopping. And eerily close to all the reminders of her freshman move-in day, which, according to the calendar, occurred four years ago but frankly I’m skeptical. I’m sure it’s only been about a week.

A few nights ago, I sat at a table with the young women with whom my daughter now shares an apartment, the girls I originally met all those years ago in the hallway of her freshman dorm. They are all beautiful and bright, representing every region of the country, every undergraduate college, and even every hair color. They will be leaving each other soon as they disperse, interestingly, to major consulting firms in various cities, but they are already planning their annual summer beach vacation for 2012. I hope they can keep it going, at least for a few years.

I lost touch with my college friends quickly; most of them were distant memories by the time I received my diploma, even though I graduated on time. I had begun a pattern of disconnecting during those college years that still haunts me today; Facebook has enabled me to reconnect with some, but I often regret that I failed to hang on to certain people along the way. The journey might have felt a bit less lonesome.

In some ways, I feel more at home on the grounds of Georgetown than I ever felt on my own college campus. From the beginning, my daughter has welcomed me into her life there, and her friends have embraced me (and all the other friends’ parents) as if we are all members of some oddly diverse cousins’ club. One of my daughter’s closest friends recently complained to her that I had appeared to “unfriend” her on Facebook. My daughter assured her that I hadn’t, simply because she assumes I would have no idea how to do that. Not true, I do know how, but any unfriending in this situation was purely accidental. As soon as I was able to access the Internet – the slow pace of the South extended, somehow, to my laptop – I rectified the situation.

As my daughter and her friends, these accomplished and fiercely loyal young men and women, go their separate ways, I take comfort in the knowledge that – thanks not only to modern social networking but also to far better attitudes than I had at their age – they will be there for each other. They will support each other through their next phase of growing pains, attend each others’ weddings, maybe even stick around long enough to get to know each others’ children. I certainly hope so.